


Homecoming

by vertual



Series: Engines [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, that's pretty much it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of a self-prescribed recuperative holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a coda to Engines, but you don't have to have read it. I'd really love if you did, but it's not mandatory.

Toby meows loudly, padding around the flat while he laments. It’s something that has settled into the background, something she’s learned she can’t really stop, but the confused cries are absolutely heartbreaking. He didn’t seem to care much when Tom left the picture. With Sherlock gone, though, he’s been whining almost constantly, morning and night, regardless of how much Molly has been doting on him. He was so used to the attention and affection he got from Sherlock every day, and in the four weeks the man has been away, Toby has turned into a neurotic screaming baby.

Before he left, Sherlock asked her not to phone, only to text. He didn’t give a reason, although Molly assumed he had one. It would be lonely not hearing any familiar voices but she promised to pass the request on, and she didn’t call. She’s texted him every day to say good morning and good night and, since the twenty-fifth of March, to send him a new photo of Rosie Watson in the afternoons. He doesn’t make a point of gushing, but even she knows the constant comparisons of her facial structure to John’s and Mary’s means he spends quite a lot of time looking at her little round face. And why shouldn’t he? Molly knew some time before Rosie was born that Sherlock would completely adore his goddaughter from the moment he saw her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to go visit the day he gets home, probably even before unpacking.

Molly feels a wave of sadness as she's reminded of how lonely she’s been at night. Sure, she has Toby to snuggle, but two and a half months of having Sherlock so close and then having to readjust has been uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s not like she hasn’t had to do it before, but this isn’t a breakup, and she knows he’s probably just as cold at night, and she just misses him terribly. Not that she’ll sit around wailing like the orange-eyed crybaby currently munching on his food in the corner, but still. She took care of Sherlock when he needed help, and then he decided he needed to help himself. She couldn’t hold that against him, and no one could hold it against her to feel sad.

She tosses the paperback she’s been staring at onto the coffee table without placing the bookmark. She’ll have to start over anyway; it’s been so long since she’s picked it up that all the plot points she’s passed are lost somewhere in her memory. Leave it to Molly Hooper to decide to start a book at a time when she won’t be able to concentrate on it.

Deciding it’s late enough to go to bed – just after nine, no one would judge even on a Friday night – she stands and stretches, sighing happily as the joints in her back click at the movement. She picks up her phone to send Sherlock’s good night message, but just as her keyboard pops up, a text comes in.

_Are you at home? S_

Narrowing her eyes at the device in her hand, Molly slowly types her simple reply, not sure where his question is leading. The abruptness has her curious.

_Yes, why?_

_I have a favour to ask. Nothing extreme. You’ll have to go to Baker St._

_I’ve been checking on your cultures, if that’s what you’re asking. They’re all fine :)_

_Thank you, but it’s not about the cultures. There’s something I need you to check for me that’s been driving me mad and I don’t have what I need here._

Molly lets out a huff but moves to the door, picking her coat and bag off their respective hooks and switching off the light. There’s no point in suggesting he ask Mrs. Hudson instead; as soon as he knows she’s listening, he won’t bother asking anyone else. In early April it’s nice enough to walk but she’d rather not make the ninety-minute march at night, so when she leaves her building, she flags down a passing cab – congratulating herself on her timing – and gives Sherlock’s address.

She hasn’t replied to him and he hasn’t asked again, so she assumes they’re on the same page as she relaxes in the taxi, watching the city lights out the window as she lets her mind wander.

Not counting the time he’s been away, they’ve barely been together two and a half months, but when she considers the years they spent growing on each other, it feels like much, much longer. What started as a symbiotic rapport was given time to evolve, and apparently leaving it to develop was what made them make sense. None of their mutual friends had really questioned it. Mary was surprised but supportive. John was wary for a while but came through when he decided Sherlock was serious about it. Greg just rolled his eyes and said, “Finally.”

She’s smiling to herself as the taxi slows to a stop in front of 221. Hopping out of the cab, Molly pays and thanks the driver and sends off a text telling Sherlock she’s arrived. Unlocking the front door she lets herself in, calling a hello to Mrs. Hudson in case she’s home and heard the door. Her phone buzzes as she’s climbing the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.

_Go straight through to my room. There’s a box under the bed, far side. You can’t miss it._

“What _are_ you doing?” Molly mumbles, pocketing her phone as she reaches the landing. She enters through the kitchen, toeing off her shoes out of habit before making the short walk to the door at the end of the hall. For a moment she wonders why she didn’t just tell Sherlock to wait until morning for her to run whatever errand this is, but when she opens the bedroom door and turns on the light, her thoughts screech to a halt.

Her breath catches and her heart starts pounding in alarm as her brain registers that there’s another person in the room. She’s too spooked at first to realise who she’s looking at, seeing a person sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed but not being able to finish the circuit to identify the face looking up at her. A long, silent second passes before her brain connects the name to the angular face. She launches herself at him, feeling the grin on her face as she wraps her arms around his neck and they fall onto the bed in a heap.

She feels the rumble of Sherlock’s quiet laugh as he places his own arms around her waist, hugging her tightly. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says in greeting, turning his head to kiss her temple.

“Yes you did,” Molly replies, pulling away just enough that she can rest on her elbows and look at his face. She’s missed the warm, crinkly smile more than she can explain, missed his voice and his touch and just _him_. Still smiling, she brings her hands to his cheeks and lays a firm kiss on his lips.

“Well,” he murmurs as she continues pressing her lips against his, “I think... in retrospect... maybe I did.”

“It was very mean of you.”

“Terribly mean.”

Bringing one hand up to his hair to run her fingers through the dark curls, she turns her attention to his neck, very much enjoying the way his breath hitches when her lips first make contact with his skin. She feels him grasping at the coat she’s still wearing, and she pulls away for only a second to shrug it off before diving back in, placing open-mouthed kisses on his neck and moving slowly downward. It’s astonishing how easy it is to turn him into a mess with so little effort, and before she’s even come close to his collar he’s gasping, one hand on her thigh and the other splayed on the small of her back under her shirt.

"Molly."

Her name comes out as a growl, and it takes a moment for her to decide to pause and sit up instead of carrying on in her effort to put a mark on Sherlock's throat. From her position, it doesn't feel like he minds at all either way; she can already feel his hardness against her bum as she straddles him. His hands have moved to her hips, holding her in place, and his eyes are wide and beautifully dark as he looks up at her. Adding in his ruffled hair, he looks half out of it already, breathing heavily through parted lips.

"For the record," he says in a lovely low voice, "this wasn't the goal."

"Oh." Molly blinks, feeling thrown off. _Right. Of course. Silly, overexcited Molly, jumping the gun. He's been gone long enough and he just got home; he'd probably rather lounge about and relax._ "Sorry. Should I...?"

He sits up then, his crooked smile looking absolutely wicked as he says, "I wasn't complaining."

A surprised squeak escapes Molly's lips as she's flipped onto her back, her head hitting the pillow by some mathematical miracle. She barely has time to blink before Sherlock is settled between her legs, hovering over her with that impish grin still on his face. And then he’s kissing her like he knows she loves, grazing his tongue over her bottom lip before following with his teeth, all the while roaming over her body with his hands. He knows full well what he's doing, and as he changes course to nip at her throat, pulling her leg up at the knee to hook it around his waist while simultaneously pressing down on her with his hips, a soft groan escapes her lips as she feels her eyes roll back. Her hands cling to his shoulders as he rocks against her, mouth still on her neck, determined to make a mark on her before she could do the same to him.

She feels his fingers dip under her shirt, ghosting upward over her belly and around her waist, the light touches making her shiver. Just as suddenly as she found herself lying down he’s pulling her up to sit on his lap, giving her a brief moment to put her arms up so he can remove her shirt and toss it to the floor.

"This may take longer than I'd like right now," Molly manages in a trembling voice as Sherlock leans forward to give her collarbone some attention while his hands move around her back.

"I suppose that's understandable," Sherlock murmurs, retreating. All too casually he rids himself of his jacket and turns his attention to his wrist cuffs. Glancing up at her, he cocks an eyebrow and says cheekily, "I can't do it for both of us."

Molly giggles brightly and wiggles off his lap, eagerly sitting back to shuck her remaining layers. The distraction of Sherlock quickly and efficiently stripping himself slows her down significantly, and she's about to go for her socks when Sherlock's hands close around her comparatively tiny wrists, pushing her back to the bed with little force.

He stares down at her, into her, only an ounce of the analytical side of him left lingering behind the look of fierce determination. She's certain her eyes must be as dark as his – the light's on, the door's open, she doesn't care, neither does he – and she can feel the heat radiating off him in their proximity. Her heart pounds as she arches her back, making as much contact as possible as she finds his mouth, demanding wordlessly that he kiss her like before. He lets out a low moan as she brings both of her legs up around his waist, pulling him down so his hardness is pressed against her, rubbing against her already-soaked folds. He moves his hips back just enough to brush his length against her clit, effortlessly touching the spot to make her throw her head back against the pillow with a loud moan of her own.

"Honestly," Molly gasps, eyes squeezed shut as Sherlock repeats the motion, making her burn, turning her body to ash and her brain to smoke, "how was this _not_ the goal?"

"You're the one who pounced," Sherlock replies, the clear arousal in his deep voice making the words sound dangerously gritty. "Can't blame me for responding."

"Shut up and get your box."

He's off her almost immediately, reaching for the small cardboard box she left in front of the alarm clock from last time. She's only left to look at the ceiling feeling the cold air of the room for a moment before she hears the crinkle of foil and the sound of the box hitting the end table once again. He’s back above her in record time, but he doesn't act immediately, simply looking down at her with his head tilted as if in curiosity, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips.

His hands resume their light exploration of her skin as he continues placing soft kisses on her skin, up her jawline and down her neck, across her shoulder and along her collarbone, without pattern on her chest as his hands come up to cup her breasts before moving back down to brush at her hips. She feels electric as she takes him in hand, positioning him at her entrance while his hands move down to her thighs, gripping them lightly as he eases his hips forward, both of them letting out a shaky breath as he fills her slowly.

They're immobile for a moment; adjusting, resting with their foreheads together, their shared air and her own pounding heart the only sounds in her ears. He ever so gently pulls her legs back up around his waist and then he's moving, setting a smooth and steady rhythm with ease and bringing his mouth back to hers. Molly's name leaves Sherlock's lips as a breathy moan every instance they part for air, the sound making her feel warmer and warmer by the repetition; all she can do is gasp and whimper as the chemicals flood her brain, pulling her on. She wonders for a fleeting second how Sherlock feels about the neurotransmitters, the hormones rushing through his system - and then he shifts his hips with a loud moan and the thought shatters into a million pieces.

She's close, ice and fire in her nerves and dizzying sensations everywhere, leaning over the cliff side, and then his digits land where she wants them to, two fingers circling just above the bundle of nerves at her center, and before she knows it Molly is tumbling over with a cry, all thoughts wiped from her mind as her orgasm engulfs her, her body tensing and releasing as the sensation runs through her system. It's barely begun to recede when she feels Sherlock grip her hips tightly and bury his face in her neck, following her over the edge with a hoarse cry of his own, holding taut until he's spent, letting himself drop to relax against her, panting. With the energy he has left he removes himself from her carefully, rolling over to dispose of the condom in the bin under the nightstand before returning to his spot, shifting to rest most of his weight against her hip to lie with his ear above her heart.

 _Just like the first night_ , Molly's little voice supplies when her faculties start to switch back on. She's floating somewhere a few feet above the floor, she thinks, and like the first night she comforted him, her fingers move to run through his hair of their own accord. It's an unruly sweat-dampened mess but that's irrelevant, as the motion is hardly a new one to either of them. Her eyes are heavy as she drifts toward sleepiness, lids closing comfortably as she turns her face away from the light in the room.

She's just about to drop off when she feels more than hears Sherlock's low chuckle.

"What's funny?" she mumbles, not opening her eyes.

"The goal," he says quietly, his breath warm on her skin, "was to present the narrative regarding my time away. Leading up to how I feel better for having been away."

"Mm. Tell me in the morning."

"I will. I've missed you, Molly."

"Missed you too, Sherlock. And Toby. Maybe more."

He lets out a puff of air in a fraction of a laugh, pulling her closer and smiling against her skin. "I love you. Definitely more."

"Love you too," she manages with a tired smile, and then she drops off, revelling in the feeling of having her detective back at home.

**Author's Note:**

> First time going down this road and it was surprisingly difficult. Seriously, whoa.
> 
> I'm not sure what else to say. Thank you for reading.


End file.
